Lying In His Grave

Lying In His Grave 

Michael Goodwin 

Phinneas Armstrong was a liar. Phinneas Armstrong was not even his name, truth be told. He had decided one day that his given name lacked the flair to which he was entitled. He therefore concocted a drawn out, contrived tale about winning the name in a card game in a faraway land. The townsfolk naturally believed him, for who would lie about their name? Phinneas Armstrong would, for Phinneas Armstrong was a liar. 

A liar not simply in demeanor nor action, Phinneas was a liar in all things. He lied for profit. He lied for fun. He lied when he stood to gain nothing other than accomplishing the lie itself, and convincing an entire town of people to call him a made-up name was his greatest accomplishment. And that was the problem. 

Phinneas was bored as of late. In all honesty he was depressed. Nothing was enjoyable anymore. Simply persuading his neighbors to give him money was no longer a challenge. Leading the local grave digger to spend the day on their roof to avoid “Lawn Crabs” was no longer enjoyable. Even convincing the church congregation to pray in reverse had lost its fun. No, Phinneas needed an ultimate one, and a week ago, he had his inspiration. 

Upon waking, Phinneas immediately smiled. He knew this was the day of his greatest “Epic” yet. Phinneas called them this because a simple lie could not do his machinations justice. No, these were special, and none more so than his latest inspiration. For this would be the day that Phinneas The Great, would raise from the dead.  

Not long ago, Phinneas had decided that his boredom would be the death of him, and indeed it was. After watching the church goers pray to a deity that defied the grave, Phinneas was struck by an epiphany. The resurrected God was his greatest competition. Not for worship or power, mind you, but for the ultimate “Epic,” one still told two thousand years later. Now, while Phinneas was surely an arrogant man, he was not delusional. His goal was not to have a religion based upon him, but being a local folk hero would accomplish the same. Yes, Phinneas Armstrong would defy the grave. First though, he required a death befitting a man of his greatness. A death he accomplished without ever leaving his bed. 

A letter arrived to the town crier a week ago. Not bearing postage, the letter nevertheless claimed to be from a mighty chieftain from the faraway lands of Araby. The letter was long and full of praise for the mighty Phinneas Armstrong, who apparently one night travelled to the jungle village to rid the besieged people from the mighty Crushwhallop. Sadly, while he succeeded in vanquishing the mythical beast, Phinneas himself had perished from his grievous wounds. Wounds so horrific to behold that they required a closed coffin, which the people of the village had sent overnight, at great expense. 

Now, nobody could quite remember Phinneas leaving a day earlier, in fact many had sworn they saw him that very day, but who could argue with the Chief of Araby? The townsfolk were also reluctant to doubt the unfortunate of the mighty Phinneas, who according to the letter, written in very familiar handwriting, had slew the mighty Crushwhallop. Now, nobody quite knew what such a beast was, but according to a crude drawing in the letter, it as apparently some sort of scorpion with wings and horns of a bull. It also evidently had arms and the ability to form crude tools and spears. A fearsome beast indeed. 

So it was that the hometown hero’s remains were mysteriously delivered by the Chief’s personal honor guard, under the cover of night. Now, sadly there were no witnesses to this event, but according to the letter, it was a very impressive display. When dawn broke upon the town, the rather bland casket was resting in front of City Hall.  

Little did the townsfolk know, but the coffin was nothing more than a shipping crate Phinneas had pilfered from the local dump. After a good cleaning, it was more than convincing as a coffin befitting a regional, if not national, treasure. As Phinneas would need to wait inside during the day, he adorned the inside with a few comforts, allowing himself to escape the crate during the evenings. All he need do was await his funeral to raise from the dead. Phinneas was more than happy with his progress. 

So happy was he, that he decided to celebrate just a bit early. After all, there was likely not going to be anything to do to top this. With this on his mind, his drinking turned from celebratory to despair. In fact, he began to feel a creeping dread come over him. How could he ever top cheating death? What could ever match the looks on people’s faces when in the morning, he arose from the coffin, in all his glory? Phinneas began to drink more heavily and let the self-pity wash over him. 

It was in his stupor that the idea finally came: Not only would he raise from the dead, but he would demand payment to stave off his curse. Yes! Like the mummies of old, Phinneas would demand tribute before moving on, sparing the town from his wrath. He would then begin all over again in another town. Yes, that would be just fine for him. He could do all his old tricks all over again, culminating in the same end. He could do this in every town on the map. Surely that would be more than enough challenge. He would not be a mere liar and scammer, he would in fact be immortal, his story would echo through time.  

Now, this rather overreaching goal was likely the result of many bottles of champagne. Another, more immediate result was that Phinneas barely made it to his coffin. He passed out rather quickly, the grin of the victorious still plastered on his face. 

He knew he would likely sleep through the funeral, but he was unconcerned. The funeral was of no importance, who cared for the pointless ramblings of the villagers, all of who were likely to give stirring eulogies. He only need awake at the end, to make his grand entrance, or reentrance, as the case may be. He therefore set his alarm to give the babbling masses more than enough time to say their goodbyes. 

Unbeknownst to Phinneas, the people of the town had grown quite tired of his antics. His little schemes had long ago become a source of grumblings among them. Many had become aware of his nature, and only played along with his lies in a misguided attempt to let him think he was clever. Behind his back, many had taken to calling him The Liar. In fact, the reason why so many went along with his sudden name change one day, was that nobody remembered his real one. So while none of them wished him any harm, it went without saying that not many of them had anything to say about him, much less bother attending his sendoff.  

So it was, that Phinneas awoke to his alarm. Loud enough to wake him, but quiet enough to not be heard during what he was certain was a glorious funeral, he sprung out of his coffin... Or at least attempted to do so. Sadly, more than enough dirt had already been shoveled onto the coffin, making escape impossible.  

Terror setting in, Phinneas screamed as loud as possible into the smothering dark of the coffin. Clawing at the lid of his tomb, he implored the dirt to release him. He begged and pleaded that he was not dead, that it was not his time.  

“Did you hear that,” asked the grave digger, “sounds like Phinneas saying he ain’t dead.” 

“Yeah,” responded his partner, “Old Phinneas, no good liar even after the end.” 

As the two men departed, Phinneas’s screams continued muffled by the grave dirt. Some time that evening, the screams died, as did the lie that was Phinneas Armstrong.